Scars
by Torithy
Summary: Some tales are worth revelling in; others destined to be left untold. Haunted by the truth, Filip 'Chibs' Telford finally caves to telling the story behind his scars.
1. Prologue

**Author's Note: So I've been toying with what to do next and thought I'd try something different - I'm still playing with a few other ideas, including a sequel to Ink and another Koz/Tasha fic - but, in the meantime, this is what came to mind. I know the first part's short, but it just kind of insisted on standing alone and setting things up. That said, I'd love to know what you think and if there's much interest in a Chibs story! Thanks for reading. x**

* * *

**Scars**

_What's left of kisses? Wounds, however, leave scars.  
– Bertolt Brecht_

**Prologue**

Some tales are worth revelling in; others destined to be left untold.

Propping up the clubhouse bar, surrounded by the select few who'd somehow become an intrinsic part of his life, Filip 'Chibs' Telford knew that better than most. Story-telling was in his blood, always had been. But, should he be spared to see a hundred, he'd never quite figure out what it was that made him open up that particular night. Why, after so many years of light-hearted yet loud-mouthed dismissals, simple stubborn silence, or even angry flat-out refusals, the whole dark truth of the one tale he thought he'd never confess would finally fall - unbidden and unexpected - from his lips.

Those who knew him best had learned not to ask. Some, like the eager prospects, learned the hard way. But they'd all still call out for him on the nights when tall tales filled the clubhouse whose walls surely had plenty of stories of their own to tell.

"Come on, Chibs," they'd shout, sprawled out on couches that had seen better days. "Spin us a story ..."

Old Celtic legends, woven over centuries and passed down from generation to generation, were his usual fare. Sons and daughters of his homelands, both native and adopted, were brought to life over manys a drink on the rare occasions the clubhouse fell relatively peaceful. They were tales full of everything the club he'd come to love stood for. Pride and brotherhood, family and feuds, and bloody, bloody battles. Stories of pure anarchy.

And there'd be a spark in his hazel eyes, a knowing little grin on his scarred face, as he'd get every bit as caught up as his captive audiences. The accent, a twisted hybrid that reflected his childhood in Scotland and his years in Ireland, thickened to the point where it went largely undeciphered at times. But it didn't matter. Every drop of the emotion was real and as tangible as the whiskey he favoured.

Maybe it was the whiskey that had loosened his treacherous tongue. He'd been drunker in his time though, much drunker. Maybe it was the joints passed companionably from brother to brother, though he'd been higher. Or maybe, just maybe, some deeper power was at work to align everything just so.

Only his closest of brothers were there, plus a couple of others - just old ladies and the visiting nomad president, Rane Quinn, who was relishing the opportunity to hold court.

"Please tell me you at least had someone clean that properly," Tara, from her place by Jax's side, was shaking her head - obviously trying not to fall into doctor mode when it appeared no one felt the need for it as the latest war wound was shown off.

"You're serious?" Juice repeated, for at least the third time, as he stared wide-eyed at the small but deep hole in the mountain of a man's shoulder. "A stripper's stiletto?"

"What can I say?" Quinn shrugged, with a smirk on his face. "That was one flexible broad ..."

Amid the laughter, more beers were served and the radio tuned to some classic rock station. Pool was played, money won and lost at poker, and evening slipped towards night. The shadows of the dimly lit clubhouse deepened and Chibs still kept largely to himself by the bar. Sometimes he could be the life and soul of the party, but sometimes it was harder to keep himself from brooding. He'd already shaken his head in response to various requests – whether it was to pick up a pool cue, or join a card game.

"Come on then, Chibsy," came the eventual, almost inevitable call. "Story time, bro."

He'd almost shaken his head again. But, for whatever damn reason, he just sighed and turned to pour himself another drink, for once keeping his back to them all and his head bowed as he began.

For this was no yarn recounted for the amusement of those gathered. This, as he swirled the liquid fire in his glass and touched a hand to the heavy silver cross he wore on a long chain around his neck, was catharsis.

The truth behind the scars he bore, and the life he'd left behind.

* * *

**to be continued ...**


	2. One: Past Sins

**A/N: First up, many thanks to all those reading and especially to those kind enough to review as well - it's always appreciated. **

**Secondly, I'm always hesitant to explain things in author's notes since I feel the story should do that itself. But I do just want to quickly say that, knowing Belfast very well, I'm finding it more difficult than expected to reconcile fact and fiction. The 'reality' established in the show doesn't really work with actual reality, especially the deeper you go into the detail - so I've had to try to find a compromise that works. While I wanted to draw on local knowledge, I don't pretend this is a history lesson and this is still fiction. I also want to add that, knowing ****SOA isn't overly popular in some circles precisely because of the IRA plotlines and the somewhat bizarre handling of them (my own sole gripe with the show),** I hope I've kept this free of any trace of personal opinion on the real history and politics of something that I know is still a deeply emotive subject this side of the pond.

**Hope that doesn't sound like I'm taking myself too seriously, but it does complicate things when you're writing fiction about something based in truth ... **

**Finally, on a technical note, I'm deliberately not even trying to make the chapters anything like uniform in length. Some may be very short, others very long, others in between. They'll break at natural points in the story. If a chapter is very short, it won't be because I was desperate to post something - I'm aiming not to fall into the habit of feeling pressure to update and ending up with whole chapters of filler. Hopefully you'll thank me for it lol! Anyway, as always, I'd love to know your thoughts and will try to keep the notes to a minimum after this! x**

* * *

**One: Past Sins**

"They all tell tales o' the heroes," Chibs began, his mind drifting back to a time before the nickname. Before the scars that lined his cheeks. "When they're lookin' to recruit ya for the cause."

Taking another slug of whiskey, he could feel those scattered around the clubhouse bunkering down. Wrapped in the warmth of companionship and mellowed by the booze and weed, they were the perfect audience – content to listen and easy to be transported by the lilt of his voice to wherever, and whenever, he chose to take them.

He'd done it many times before. Had them laughing as he regaled them with raucous tales of late nights his eighteen and nineteen-year-old self had spent in seedy Glasgow pubs, or swept them away with images of the rugged wilds of Donegal he'd explored in his early twenties. Not tonight though.

Tonight, he was taking them to the backstreets of Belfast and the republican enclaves of a city deeply divided.

And they didn't even see it coming.

Tara had her denim-clad legs draped over Jax's as they kicked back on the couch, his hand resting on her knee and easy smiles on both their faces. Opie had Lyla settled on his lap, her arm curled around his broad shoulders, and even Gemma had quit fussing around them all to just perch on the arm of Clay's comfy chair. All real cosy.

"Plenty might wonder what the attraction is, 'specially for an outsider. Fightin' for Irish freedom. But us Scots have had our fair share o' suppression and I guess the recruiters ain't daft, tellin' ya what ya need to hear," he said, sounding more like he was talking to himself than to anyone else. He hadn't known where to start, still didn't really. But he needed them to understand the myths that were built up – if only so he could tear them right back down. "A noble revolution. What lad don't wanna be a part o' somethin' like that? Hard-fought independence and the chance to be bloody _immortal_, that's what they're sellin'. Rebel songs sung in bars about blood spilled in battle and teary-eyed lasses waitin' by windows for their love to come home, that's how they say they'll remember ya. All glory and honour and tales o' brave sacrifice."

He poured another top-up and kept the bottle close, picking absently at the label as a self-mocking smile tugged his reluctant lips upwards.

"Gotta wonder how anyone ever falls for all that romantic shite," he said. "But nothin' rips away the rose-tint like seein' the darker side o' the fairytale for yersel'. All the twisted, downright _ugly_ things they ain't never gonna sing about. And, Jesus Christ, I musta seen 'em all ..."

* * *

_**February, 1992: Short Strand, Belfast. **_

The chill wind blowing through his khaki green jacket was just another thing Belfast had in common with Glasgow. Both were almost always fucking baltic. Heavy grey clouds were rolling overhead, so low they looked like he could reach up and touch them, and he knew the rain wasn't far off. Turning up the collar of the jacket and looking around for any sign of the guy he was meant to be meeting, he took a second to turn in towards the wall and cupped the flame of his lighter until he'd managed to spark up.

"Ya takin' a piss or what, Scotty?" came the jaunty call. "Get yer arse over 'ere!"

"Yer the bastard runnin' late, O'Rourke. Been freezin' me balls off this last hour and I still ain't even been told what we're supposed to be doin'."

But it appeared his comrade was too laidback to be phased by the distinctly disgruntled tone, simply jerking his head in the direction he wanted them to go. "C'mon then, princess. Wouldn't want ya catchin' cold, would we?"

Cigarette in the corner of his mouth and his hands jammed in his pockets, Filip Telford shrugged and followed the older man, looking confused when they soon came to a halt right outside a church. "Think we missed Mass ..."

"True. But, luckily for us, we're just in time for confession."

* * *

Glancing around the clubhouse, Chibs raked a hand through the salt-and-pepper of his hair and wasn't exactly surprised to find it was shaking. It had been a long time since he'd voluntarily thought about that day, but when he did ... It was every bit as real and as vivid as it had been back then.

"See, if ya weren't wi' us, ya were against us," he said, by way of explanation. "That was just the way it was."

He could see the hint of confusion on a few faces as they tried to second-guess him and work out where this was going. Bars and strip clubs were often central to his reminiscing, churches not so much.

"Turned out this lad they'd been tryin' to recruit had got himsel' a new job," he sighed. "Good Catholic lad he was, but he'd only gone and joined the goddamn RUC – that was what they called the cops in them days, the Royal Ulster Constabulary. And that most definitely put him in the enemy camp. Crown forces, ya see? Noble-minded bugger he was though, apparently. All about makin' changes from the inside. Might as well have been his own bloody death warrant he was signing. His da was ... sympathetic to the cause, shall we say? And no one was gonna take any chances on what secrets could come tumblin' out."

Chibs tightened his grip on the glass, but he didn't take a drink. Not this time. "I'd shot a cop before. In Omagh. Young lad too, my age. Two in the back o' the head - never saw it comin'. Probably didn't even feel it, not that it makes much difference. Fucked me up, it did, and they all knew it. Things coulda gone either way, but they made a point o' pullin' me closer - gettin' me in deeper in case those cold feet sent me runnin'. And it worked. I never forgot what I'd done, but I buried it deeper than the fuckin' body. 'Til that day."

His bowed head allowed his gaze to drift to the silver cross resting against his shirt. Sometimes it felt heavier around his neck than others.

"There'd been other kills, but not executions. Just the way it worked out, I guess. If they'd told me to do somethin', I'd have had to or it woulda been me payin' the price," he said. That was all part o' how it worked too. Ya never seemed to build up any credit wi' the boys callin' the shots – ya were only as well thought o' as yer last show o' loyalty. One wrong move and it was _yer_ hands or knees they were shootin'."

"Padre Pio," a gruff voice interrupted. "That's the hands, ain't it?"

Chibs wasn't surprised that it was Happy who spoke up. The killer always had been more than a little interested in the finer points of how they'd conducted business back in the day.

"Aye, that's what they called it," he nodded. "Bullet through both palms - no motivator like it. But when they told me what they wanted ... Omagh just came flooding back."

"They wanted you to kill a cop in a goddamn _church_?"

Even Sons had a moral code of sorts and Chibs loved Jax for that strong sense of right and wrong. If it was something he could hold on to, then there was hope for the future of the club – a chance that it could be steered through the dark times and God knows he was ready for that.

He nodded again. "Turns out St Matthew's was somethin' o' a stronghold. The priest was a long-time supporter wi' family ties to the 'Ra. Folk higher up the food chain than me had it all planned – get the kid in the confessional and, right when he's in the middle o' savin' his soul, I send him off to the pearly gates. Simple as that."

"Did you ... Did you do it?"

The wide-eyed look on Lyla's face, coupled with the way Tara seemed to be avoiding his gaze, twisted something in his gut. His brothers, they understood the fucked-up shit a man could get dragged into. The choices you had to make. But old ladies, club women he respected and cared about, they tended to see things a little differently. Where his brothers might see a justifiable target and an assassination, their old ladies would first see a son or a husband and a cold-blooded murder. And he knew they'd be right. At least he didn't have to lie to save face.

"Nah, love, I didn't," he said, managing a faint smile. "But, though I ain't proud o' it, I'd be lyin' if I didn't say I'd go back if I could – and ya better believe I'd pull that trigger in a fuckin' heartbeat. Because that, my friends, was the beginning o' the end."

* * *

**to be continued ...**


	3. Two: Soul Searching

**A/N: Thanks so much for all the feedback, lovelies! A few extra wee notes at the bottom, but if anything else needs cleared up just shout. I hate either giving away info before the chapter even starts or breaking the flow mid-way to explain anything, so hopefully my tactic - which will become clear when you read on - isn't too intrusive! Would, as always, love to hear your thoughts :)**

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**Two: Soul Searching**

**_February 1992: Short Strand, Belfast._**

"The fuck was _that_?" O'Rourke hissed as he dragged him out of the church by the arm and down the nearest deserted alleyway, his face red with anger. But it still wasn't as red as the bright arterial blood spattered down one side of his face.

Filip ripped out of his grasp and braced his hands against the wall, his head down as he took deep shaky breaths and tried to stop the uneasy rolling of his stomach. "I ... I donnae know, all right? I donnae fuckin' know!"

It was a lie. He knew exactly what it was. Not the violence. Not the killing. A step too far. Not that it had mattered in the end. The kid's body was slumped inside the blood-soaked confessional, with a bullet in his throat and another in his forehead. And all his failure to pull the trigger himself had done, besides ensure the target a messier-than-planned death, was put a target on his own head.

It was supposed to be quick, painless, with minimal clean-up required. Instead, the boy had ended up on his knees pleading for his life while O'Rourke screamed at him to _just fuckin' shoot the traitorous bastard_ ... His hands had been shaking so badly, there was a fair chance he'd have missed even if he had fired at close range.

As it was, they'd left a hell of a mess for Father Kellan to deal with and he didn't need to see the look on his supposed accomplice's face to know he'd really fucked up this time. He'd already had a vicious crack round the head with the butt of the very gun that had been wrestled from his fingers to prove it.

"I'll ... I get me head straight," he tried, resting his aching forehead against the rough brick and closing his eyes in something dangerously close to despair. "I will, man. This ... This ain't ever gonna happen again."

"That much ya got right, me boyo," O'Rourke nodded, trying to dash the blood away with his sleeve. "Damn right."

* * *

Touching a hand to his temple at the memory, Chibs paused to light another cigarette, taking a deep drag and tilting his head back to exhale a long stream of smoke.

When he'd recounted the exact moment the terrified young officer had met his maker, more than one of his audience had actually flinched, so caught up were they in the tension he had woven with his chilling tale.

The Sons had little love for law enforcement, but a young man believing in his chance to make a difference ... That had resonance. Having that stolen from him in an instant had even more. They may have all wrapped themselves in swaggering invincibility, but mortality weighed heavy on all their shoulders behind closed doors. And running guns for the IRA didn't mean they understood their cause. That was business, pure and simple.

Well, none of them really believed it was _pure_, but then none of them were exactly angels themselves.

"So that's why they excommunicated you? 'Cause you messed up?" Juice chipped in, leaning forward eagerly with his elbows on his knees. Only to get a none-too-gentle clip round the ear from Piney. "Ow! What did I say?"

"Shut up and just let the man tell his damn story."

"Ach, let the boy alone," Chibs sighed, getting up from his stool and stretching out his tired muscles before making his way to drop down beside the young man he'd once vouched for, slinging a companionable arm around his shoulders. "Nah, Juicy, that weren't it. Not all o' it anyway. Ya see, like all the best stories, this one's got a bonnie lass in it."

The cat-calls and whistles made him smile despite himself and he made himself comfortable on the well-worn couch, knowing he wasn't going to get away without telling some more of the yarn now. Although he definitely wasn't prepared to subject them to the complete life and times of one Filip Telford, unfortunate bastard that he was. They didn't have the time for that. Or the whiskey, come to think of it.

"So ... Fiona?" Juice asked, undeterred by the reaction to his previous interruption and wiggling his eyebrows suggestively to warm laughter around the room.

But catching them all off-guard, Chibs shook his head, then seemed to reconsider. "Well, aye, but that ain't who I meant. Before Fi ... Before Fi, there was Aoife*. My darlin' Aoife ..."

When he looked up, he could see where Gemma's knowing gaze had already drifted - to the anarchy 'A' on his arm. And, not for the first time, he realised just how rare it was for anything to escape that woman.

"Tell us about her, baby," the matriarch gently prompted. "Tell us about Aoife."

* * *

**_February 1992: Falls Road, Belfast._**

He didn't know what was worse – the prospect of a night alone, staring at the walls of his tiny flat, or having to face the clubhouse. But one thing he did know was that he needed a drink and the cupboards were bare. So he'd tolerated the shower, even when it went from barely luke-warm to freezing cold, and changed the clothes he'd only realised were every bit as blood-stained as O'Rourke's when he'd made it home. Then, leaving his Sambel cut behind, but tucking a small flick-knife in a pocket of his jeans, he headed back out into the growing dusk.

Wandering west Belfast alone after dark wasn't exactly smart. They didn't call it the wild west for nothing. But he knew these streets and knew he could, despite his fuck-up, handle himself. Cold-blooded assassination might be one thing, self-defence against whatever threat might present itself was definitely another.

While carrying a gun was too risky with the soldiers patrolling, he had his knife and he had his fists. Unless shit went seriously south, that was enough. And if things did go bad ... Well, at least he wouldn't have to keep looking over his shoulder any more.

Recognising that as the hopelessly maudlin thought that it was, for a second, he almost considered going to the clubhouse after all. He could force himself to shoot the breeze with his brothers, find a girl willing to let him burn off a little pent-up nervous energy, and see if he couldn't pull his head out of his arse. Even just for an hour or so.

"Jesus, Filip, get it together," he muttered, pulling his flat cap down low over his eyes. Thoughts of the club dismissed once again, he'd decided he didn't want to be recognised. Didn't want the whispers, the stares. His cards were marked, he knew that – he didn't need anyone reminding him.

The wind had picked up, whipping the tattered tricolours that flew from the lampposts to mark the area as republican dominated, and the rain – light though it was, for now – only added to the chill. But still he walked, with no real idea where he was headed.

Past the mural commemorating the hunger strikers who'd lost their lives a decade ago. Nearly a dozen men jailed for attacks by bomb and bullet had died in filth and squalor behind the high walls of Long Kesh prison, in protest over being treated like common criminals instead of the victims of the political turmoil they so ardently felt they were. _And for what?_ The niggling doubts in the back of his mind had been growing much more persistent of late.

Past an army checkpoint, where soldiers in khaki camouflage were searching the boot of a clapped out old Ford Escort. Two others had their machine guns trained on the scowling driver with his hands braced on the hood, but Filip kept walking with no more than a cursory glance. Sometimes it was best not to draw attention.

Past the Felons' Club, where loud music and louder drinkers spilled out onto the street. The strains of one of the more boisterous versions of The Fields of Athenry drifted through the doors as they opened and closed, the traditional lyrics punctuated with the modern, strident refrain. _Oh, baby, let the free birds fly ... Sinn Féin!** IRA!_

Still he walked, with the darkness deepening though the clouds had shifted and tiny stars peeped out overhead. The rain had eased too, thank Christ. Footsteps behind him momentarily set his nerves on edge, but he turned down a side street and they simply faded into the night. That left him busy side-stepping a puddle lit by the fluorescent light of an 'open' sign when the request came out of the shadows.

"Here, mister – got a light?"

He'd looked up, suspecting he knew that voice despite the slight teasing attempt to disguise it, and found himself outside the secluded backdoor of a tiny traditional pub he'd frequented before. Maguire's Bar. Ambling closer, he pulled a lighter from his jeans and held it up, sparking the tiny flame for a second and then letting it go out.

"Got a smoke?" came the follow-up question, the voice definitely recognisable this time and making him laugh.

"Always did know how to push yer luck, lass," he said wryly, producing a pack of cigarettes from an inside pocket of his jacket and sticking one between his lips to light it. Taking a long drag, he handed it over as he blew out the smoke. "How'd ya know it was me anyway?"

"Only suspected. Saw no harm in tryin'," she shrugged. "Needed a smoke off somebody and if it weren't yersel', woulda been someone else."

"Long night?"

"Dull night," she clarified. "Bar's dead and the punters' ain't far behind. Average age in there's gotta be the wrong side o' seventy. Come you in and take the bad look off the place."

"I ain't good company right now, love," he said, shaking his head as he took back his cigarette for another drag.

"Who said ya were good company any time?" came the quick retort. But she shifted closer and reached out to brush her fingers lightly over the frayed end of his scarf. "Please, Filip. Looks like ya could do wi' a drink anyway."

That much was true and the second he wavered, her hand slipped into his. He let her lead the way.

* * *

"Chibs, you _dog_," Jax grinned wolfishly, from where he was sprawled. "Let me guess - blonde, great rack ..."

"No way, man - Irish, remember?" Bobby tried. "Redhead, feisty in the sack ..."

Chibs shook his head, a small, wistful smile crossing his face. "Brunette," he said quietly. "Gorgeous green eyes a man could drown in. And yeah, feisty as hell at times. But sweet too, that was Aoife."

"So why the hell are we only hearing about her now?" Gemma demanded. "Because Lord knows you could hardly call that Fiona _sweet_ ..."

He toyed with his glass as he considered the answer and then sighed as he tried to bite the bullet, in a manner of speaking. "I ... I should never have let it get as far as it did. From the minute I realised who she was, I shoulda left well enough alone. 'Cause none o' ya knew her, but ya do know her family."

Confusion was written on more than one face again and he could see them trying to work it out, before he simply filled in the blanks. "O'Phelan," he said, suddenly finding it hard to keep the emotion out of his voice.

"Aoife O'Phelan. Jimmy's wee sister."

* * *

**to be continued ...**

* * *

*** Aoife** - most common pronunciation is Ee-fah. I'm hoping it doesn't put you off or come across as part of the trend for 'quirky' names, because it's very common in Ireland and I just couldn't get it out of my head for this character. If that sort of thing interests you, it means "radiant, beautiful or joyful".

**** Sinn Féin** - pronounced Shin Fain, like vain. It's the name of a real republican political party which was historically connected to the IRA. In the modern day, it has a major position in government and has no connection to any armed groups still using variants of the IRA name. The name means "we ourselves". The song the Fields of Athenry is a moving Irish ballad, but the modern habit of shouting IRA slogans has given it negative connotations in some circles - it's also been adopted as a football (soccer) chant.


	4. Three: Finding Solace

**Three: Finding Solace**

From her place by her husband's side, the club's matriarch eyed Chibs with a look that was caught somewhere halfway between sympathy and disapproval. "Tell me you didn't let some little doe-eyed bitch wrap you round her finger on that devious bastard's orders," she sighed.

"Trust me when I say the family name was all those two had in common, Gem," Chibs assured her. "Oh, she was just as scared o' Jimmy as anyone and tried not to piss him off, but she stayed the hell out o' his business."

Gemma didn't exactly look convinced. "Baby, you wouldn't be the first guy to be taken in by pussy, you know."

He didn't try to correct her, just hauled himself up from the couch with a sigh to restlessly wander across the clubhouse and stare at the wall of mugshots. His gaze drifted to his own younger, insolent-looking self, wondering – not for the first time - where the years had gone.

"I was already in me thirties when everythin' started really turnin' to shite. Aoife was barely twenty-one. She shoulda been out enjoyin' her life, not gettin' mixed up wi' the likes o' me," he said, just a twist of bitterness in his tone. "Although I guess in some ways, she'd already been dragged deeper than even I was – the price o' the O'Phelan name. Made ya an instant target for the loyalists, 'specially once Jimmy started makin' his way up the IRA ranks. They lost a brother an' their da both in a gun attack on a bookies' in broad daylight, ya know. Nobody and nowhere was safe in them days."

With his head bowed as if under the weight of all the memories, the Scotsman touched an almost tender hand to his crucifix.

"She was the baby o' the family," he said quietly. "Her ma an' Jimmy were pretty much all she had left after that attack, wi' her sisters both married and emigrated to the other side o' the world. It shoulda maybe brought her an' Jimmy closer, but instead it set them further apart and she grew to damn near hate what he'd become. He was all about revenge – but Aoife, god love the wee lass, she just wanted out o' all the bloodshed ..."

* * *

_**February 1992: Divis, Belfast.**_

The heavy clouds ensured there wasn't a star in the sky, although the moon had found a place from which to peek out and cast its soft glow over the waves of the lough stretching out to sea. Between that and the city lights twinkling for miles, it was almost possible to forget the rest – the dark underbelly.

No matter how near the surface it lurked.

It was cold, though not overly so for the time of year, and the wind was whipping Aoife's dark hair as she shivered in her thin parka. Twice he'd asked already if she wanted to go back and twice she'd shook her head. And so they'd stayed high in the Belfast hills, perched on a flat-topped rock to keep the grass from soaking their backsides, swigging whiskey from his hip flask and watching the last Scotland-bound ferry of the night slip out across the bay.

From somewhere far below, the distant wail of a police siren reached them. But otherwise, rare peace was theirs.

"Ya never think o' getting out, lass?" Filip asked suddenly, breaking the companionable silence that had fallen between them. "Like yer sisters?"

"Nah. Haven't found a rich foreigner to marry me yet," she said, eyes twinkling as she shot him a sidelong look. But he wasn't to be so easily deterred.

"I'm serious, Aoife. Ya never think there's gotta be somethin' better out there than the bombs an' the bullets?" he asked, almost wishing he hadn't when he saw how the light dimmed in those eyes at the thought.

"Only all the fuckin' time," she sighed, looking out over the dark horizon again with a resigned shrug. "But I got me ma to think about, simple as that."

"Could take 'er wi' ya ..."

"Talk sense, Filip. To hear her talk, ya'd think they only invented planes the other day. I tried talking her into a wee trip to Dublin once, just to get a bit o' a break, and it was like I'd suggested packin' her off to the bloody Middle East. Oh, I've dreamt about it all right. But ma doesn't do travel, so that's all it is – daft dreams."

He let it go at that, lapsing into silence again – at least until another shiver from her caught the corner of his eye and he found himself fumbling open his heavy jacket with cold fingers. "C'mere - else yer gonna catch yer death," he ordered, gesturing to her with a jerk of his head.

The little brunette considered him for a moment, but didn't argue. Instead, she tucked herself in to his side and let him wrap them both up tight as her arms slipped around his waist. "Yer fuckin' freezin', wee girl!" he half scolded, rubbing his hands briskly up and down her back in a fairly futile bid to warm her.

"I'll be grand," she murmured, her head resting on his chest. "Sure we'll go when we can't see the ferry anymore."

Looking out across the water, not particularly relishing the prospect of returning to the city below, he nodded and just held her closer as the ship glided further and further out to sea. He didn't even realise he'd pressed his lips to her temple until she turned those green eyes up to his again.

"Filip, if things were different ... Would ya take me away from here?" Aoife whispered.

He could hear the longing in her voice and didn't even have to think about it. "Aye, love, that I would."

The soft, tentative kiss they found themselves caught up in took them both by surprise, but they gave in to each other without question as it slowly deepened - only pulling apart when a fresh gust of wind swept the first heavy raindrops into their faces in a literal cold shower.

"Shite!" Aoife gasped, scrambling to her feet with a little squeal as the heavens simply seemed to open all at once. "Car, now – move!"

Laughing between curses, the pair raced hand-in-hand through the downpour, stumbling in their haste over the rough path that led back down to the point where they'd had to abandon her beat-up little car. Both were relieved, but thoroughly drenched, when they could finally haul open the doors and throw themselves into the blanket-covered backseat.

"Jesus," Filip groaned, pushing his sodden hair out of his eyes and tilting his head back as he tried to get his breath back. "Soaked to the fuckin' skin, I am."

Wriggling out of her rain-darkened parka and tugging the thick blanket out from below them, Aoife wrapped herself in its relative warmth and smiled as she ended up on his lap. "Probably shouldn't stay in these wet clothes, 'less you want to catch yer death, Filip ..." she said, taking his own words and throwing them back at him.

Staring up at her, his heart still thumping in his chest and his mind racing too, he knew he should stop to think. But they were both still lost in another world all of their own and, though he knew that illusion had to come crashing down eventually, those green eyes and soft lips were all he could see for now and all that mattered.

Even with rain dripping from her hair, she was beautiful and he fisted his hands in the edges of the blanket around her shoulders to pull her down into a long kiss full of everything he knew he shouldn't feel.

Jimmy, Fiona, unfulfilled orders and outside pressures ... All forgotten the moment he'd reached for her.

And consequences be damned.

* * *

Almost having forgotten his audience, Chibs looked up and managed a wry laugh at the expectant looks on their faces. He should have known his brothers would be looking for the uncut version of his story, but even Tara and Lyla seemed caught up in the apparent romance of his tale.

"Not like you to be coy, man," Tig smirked, in the middle of quietly liberating another bottle of whiskey from the well-stocked bar.

"Some things just ain't for a bunch o' mucky-minded buggers' ears," he grinned, with a quick wink to the few women listening. "No offense, ladies. But aye, all right, we did end up havin' a nice wee shag in the backseat." But, even as well-intentioned wolf-whistles rang out, he shook his head and the smile faded. "That was all well an' good away from the real world, but we both knew we had to go back. 'Cept, when it came to her, didn't I go an' turn into a real selfish bastard," he said, his voice full of regret and so unlike his usual strident tones. "I shoulda walked away when the chance was there."

"And what? Made her think that was all you were after? That you were done with her once you got what you wanted?" Tara interrupted, shaking her head. "Oh, Chibs, no. You obviously cared about her more than that ..."

"Thinkin' straight woulda been carin' about her, love," he said softly. "Instead, I took her to bed again - knowin' full well Jimmy would kill the pair o' us if he found out. Except he didn't kill us. Might have been easier if he had."

Even though he trailed off and went back to staring at his drink, no one spoke. No one asked what had happened. He knew he'd already confessed to more than they'd ever expected; just like he could tell that each of them already had a horrible feeling they knew what came next anyway.

But he wasn't done. Not yet. He just had to find the words to go on.

* * *

**to be continued ...**


	5. Four: Blessed Relief

**Four: Blessed Relief**

"I love Fiona," Chibs said, after a long pause, his tone firm and the look on his face daring anyone to suggest otherwise. "She gave me my wee Kerrianne, made me a da. But even I gotta admit she could be ..."

"A stone-cold bitch?" Gemma suggested, the smile on her lips not quite reaching her eyes.

"I was gonna say hard work," he said wryly, but coming from the queen, he let the harsh remark slide. He'd defend his family to the death, but Gemma was part of that family too and he knew her distaste for his wife only came from that over-protective place she reverted to when she felt any of _her_ boys were in need of support.

"You're too generous," came the cool response.

"Maybe. But I ain't a total eejit," Chibs sighed. "I know the cause always came first wi' Fi. Just like I know the way she had to grow up made her the way she was – a closed book, never trustin' anyone. We had somethin', but she was never gonna let me in like I wished she could. Until she got knocked up, it weren't even like we were really together. She'd never have married the likes o' me, if it weren't for the baby."

"You ever think Jimmy told her to keep you close?" Gemma asked, with every ounce of her usual bluntness.

His gaze shifted to his feet as he thought about all the times he'd begged her to let him get both her and their daughter away from that poisonous, murderous bastard – and all the times she'd made their excuses. It had crossed his mind more than once that, if she loved him at all, she wouldn't have let anyone come between them.

Not even Jimmy.

And, more than once, he'd found himself wondering why his own _wife_ – the mother of his child - hadn't found a way to be with him and put the pieces of their family back together. She was far from some helpless little girl ...

Seeming to take his silence as her answer, the queen rose to lay a gentle hand on his back. "And this Aoife?"

Aoife.

The girl who had never pushed him one way or the other; who had understood his hatred for what he'd been caught up in, but knew the dangers of trying to get out. The girl who had understood his need to have something, _someone_, to hold onto amid the dark savagery of the life they were both trapped in.

"She was me only wee bit o' escape," he whispered, guilt written as clearly on his face as those wretched scars.

* * *

_**April 1992: Falls Road, Belfast.**_

Tangled up together beneath the covers, with Aoife's arm draped over his waist and her face nuzzled into his neck, he couldn't quite bring himself to feel guilty. Not with those soft, breathless words still so clear in his mind.

He'd been trailing hot kisses down her throat as she arched beneath him. "Filip ..." she'd managed, one arm thrown above her head and the other curled around his shoulders as her eyes drifted closed in pleasure. "Oh god, Filip, I ... I love you ..."

It had been enough to stop him in his tracks, even buried to the hilt inside her tight heat, and make him stare down at her in lust-dazed wonder. As far as he was concerned, she was too young for him, too sweet. Too everything he wasn't.

"If I thought ya were gonna stop, I wouldn't have ..."

But he'd simply cut off her half-teasing, half-unsure response with a long, tender kiss. "I love ya too, darlin'," he'd said huskily, reaching to stroke her cheek and kiss her again as he eased almost all the way out, then back in with a groan. "Jesus, Aoife ..."

"Don't stop," she'd all but begged him. "Please, Filip, just don't stop."

For once - sticking to the same intense, yet agonisingly slow pace that made them both tremble and brought tiny beads of sweat to their skin - he did as he was told.

* * *

To those waiting not-so-patiently, it must have seemed like he'd drifted off down memory lane and gotten lost. But some things were not to be disclosed. There were clubhouse nights that were beyond hazy, but every second he'd spent with Aoife was still etched on his mind. She was no easy conquest to be bragged about with the lads and he didn't give a flying fuck if that made him sound like a pussy. Some things were just too precious to share.

Her wrapped safe and content in his arms, both of them spent and drifting somewhere between awake and sleeping ... That would always be just for him.

Realising they were still waiting though, he cleared his throat and fumbled for his smokes again.

"Things had cooled wi' me an' Fi," he mumbled, as he sparked up and took a long drag. "She knew I was outta favour wi' the IRA, kept naggin' at me to get back in their good graces – do whatever the fuck it took. She had a point. They weren't men ya wanted to piss off. But I didn't want to hear it. One day, I snapped. Told her I wanted out. For good. She near went off like a bloody rocket, screamin' at me that ya didn't get to decide. That _they'd_ tell ya when ya were done – usually wi' a bullet in the back o' yer skull."

"Always did think she had to be right, that one," Gemma said, with a contemptuous roll of her eyes.

"Aye," Chibs exhaled grimly. "And she was."

* * *

**to be continued ...**


End file.
